Chapter 4 - The Construction of Harrison Plaza
Three days after the earthquake, the sun finally broke through the heavy, grey smog of the Riverside basin.
The undeveloped land directly behind my parents' house—the pristine, five-acre parkland they had treated as their private playground for two decades—was no longer quiet.
At six o'clock in the morning, three massive flatbed trucks from the California National Guard backed down the Crestview Drive access road. They were followed by two bulldozers, a grading rig, and fifty high-efficiency prefabricated housing units designed by the state's emergency management division.
I stood on the dirt shoulder of the parkland, wearing my old hiking boots, a yellow safety vest, and a hard hat. Beside me, Ms. Vance from the housing department was holding a digital blueprint of the "Oakridge Emergency Housing Grid."
"We can fit forty-two units here, Dr. Sterling," she said, pointing to the grassy meadow where my sister Vanessa had hosted her daughter’s elaborate, white-themed birthday party just last month. "The utility lines can tie directly into the main grid on the Crestview road. Your father’s property has a high-capacity sewer line that we can tap into with a minimal easement."
"Do it," I said.
Through the tall, wrought-iron fence that separated the parkland from my parents' backyard, I could see my mother standing on her veranda. She was clutching a silk robe around her shoulders, her face pale, her eyes wide with horror as she watched a bulldozer tear through her prized, prize-winning English rose garden to clear a path for the temporary sewage conduits.
My father was standing next to her, shouting hoarsely at a National Guard sergeant who was calmly pointing to the state-stamped emergency easement warrant I had signed three hours ago.
"This is private property!" Richard’s voice carried over the roar of the diesel engines. "You can't bring those... those people here! This is a residential neighborhood!"
The "people" he was referring to were fifteen families from the downtown sector who had already arrived in a yellow city bus—mothers holding infants, elderly couples clutching small bags of salvaged clothes, and children who looked just as terrified as Lily had been three days ago.
A young woman with a baby wrapped in a faded blanket walked up to me, her eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. "Are you the lady who opened the gate?"
"I am," I said, giving her a warm, genuine smile. "Welcome to Oakridge. Your unit is number twelve—it’s got a small heater, clean sheets, and the water pressure is excellent."
The woman looked at the massive, two-story Tudor house behind the fence, then back at me. Tears began to spill down her cheeks. "Thank you. God bless you. We’ve been sleeping in our car since Tuesday."
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"You don't have to sleep in your car anymore," I said, my hand resting gently on her shoulder.
Behind the fence, my mother turned her back on the construction site, unable to bear the sight of thirty "common" citizens living on the land she had spent her life pretending she owned. She went inside, slamming her double oak doors so hard the sound carried over the drone of the grading rigs.
